In a motel room in Colorado Springs
We learned what impatience brings
To women who fool around
That summer was a strung-out mess
And you swore to God you had the perfect fix
And a plan to get us out
You said, "Don't you turn around
Leave your strings at the door
And just walk out."
I sat in the living room
And watched your girlfriend pack her things
To move away from you
Our record: Buffy Sainte-Marie
And we held hands and cried
'Til we couldn't see anything.
You said, "Don't you turn around.
You wouldn't like what you found here anyhow."
So I took a red-eye from the Bay
Watched you watch the taxi pull away
From Mission Street
The next time we would meet
Would be a train wreck of nerves and sexless sleep
Mistakes made, empty hymns
I said, "Don't you make a sound
Nothing's careful in desire
Especially now."
There were no accidents
We asked for this
But the South is not out West
There's nothing gentle about
Our stomachs full of gin
We are alive, and we have no regrets
In a farmhouse in the Piedmont Hills
We learned what impatience wills
To women who fool around
If thievery has a voice to to sing
It's the choice and sound of moving hands
Over social wedding rings
I said, "Don't you turn around
Leave your strings at the door
And just walk out."
